


My Bad

by noobieninja



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Criminals, Emotional Manipulation, Incest, M/M, Mentions of Death, Mentions of past abuse, Stealing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-02
Updated: 2013-06-02
Packaged: 2017-12-13 19:11:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/827837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noobieninja/pseuds/noobieninja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam was just trying to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Bad

**Author's Note:**

> Made for an awesome person on Tumblr who really likes criminal AUs. Also who doesn't love some angsty Weecest man.

There's nothing better than watching people piss themselves in fear, handing over whatever they think will keep them alive for another day. Really, it's one of my favorite things.  
  
Hell, the gun didn't even have to be _loaded_ , and people would still bend over backwards and break themselves in billions of different ways if you held the butt of it up against their temple. It's fucking hilarious.  
  
The media calls me a psychopath. Well, not _me_ particularly. They call Dean a psychopath, who kidnapped his own little brother and forces him to do a hundred awful things, probably as much as in private as in public. They make him out to be this awful person, this horrible little shit who had a pretty face and a brilliantly evil mind.  
  
In reality, it was my idea.  
  
Okay, so it _started_ with Dean killing Dad. But that was for a good reason - he screamed and yelled and spit and drank and beat and Dean had finally had enough of me crying into his chest at night, scared to death to wake up the next morning because I knew it would only get worse. So Dean shot him in the head, and we moved down to Texas, because things would be easier there.  
  
Until Dean got fired from his job at the mechanic's - the manager's daughter took a shine to Dean, hit on him too much in front of Daddy until Daddy got mad - and we were running low on money. Coupons could only go so far.  
  
So, at the ripe old age of fourteen, I robbed my first convenience store. I made sure to take Dean's gun and hide my body and face from the camera hanging from the ceiling. I made the news, but they said it was some poor fuck from inner city Houston, locked him up for a few years, and Dean just looked from the macaroni and cheese we bought with the money I stole to me, but didn't say anything.  
  
A few more robberies later, Dean finally sat me down.  
  
 _You can't keep doing this, Sammy_.  
  
Gosh, big brother, I didn't know what he was talking about.  
  
 _The stealing. It's not okay, it's illegal, and you could get hurt_.  
  
I wasn't hurt, though. I was fine, and we had money.  
  
 _Sammy-_  
  
If he was so worried, he could come with me. But until he got another job, that was the only way money was coming into our hands.  
  
The conversation ended after that, but I didn't change my position. We weren't in a porno with the economy, and local banks weren't going to just jizz money onto our faces. We had to work for that money shot.  
  
Dean caught me on the way out the door the next time I went out. We stared at each other for a minute, but he just sighed and said, "Lemme grab something first."  
  
He didn't look at me the same for a while. A long while.  
  
A year later, I figured that he would never look at me like I was a cute little innocent the way he thought I'd always been and always would be. I almost hated to see that affection leave his eyes, but it had brought along something else. Something fiery and new and different.  
  
I knew what it was from the start - I'd seen that look before, of course, on girls at school and sometimes jocky footballer seniors who were too homophobic to admit the fact they want a dick in their mouth, and on Dean's own face when he looked at pretty girls wearing short shorts in the grocery store.  
  
 _Lust._  
  
Boy-howdy, big brother wanted a piece of me.  
  
But I knew he wasn't going to pursue it. Because I was fifteen and a kid and his little brother and a boy and a virgin. So I teased him. Clothes that showed less and less, tighter pants, shorter shorts, hell, I even started talking about guys at school that I thought were a nice possible lay (after awkwardly coming out of the closet, if there even is one for bi guys).  
  
Dean didn't like the new behavior, so when he said _stop this bullshit, Sammy_ , I said _make me_.  
  
We didn't talk about it much. We just did it. A lot.  
  
When we finally talked about it, it was because we were on the road, running away from Texas and heading for Miami, because the news finally caught up to us and Dean was scared and when Dean is scared he gets angry and when Dean gets angry he starts spilling all his thoughts and secrets like someone just toppled over his emotional milk carton. He started yelling about how the stealing and the sex was wrong, all wrong, and we were going to hell for it and I didn't even care and that was the worst part, because I _should have cared_ or something along those lines.  
  
If he wanted to stop, he could. If he wanted me out, he could kick me out. If he didn't want me to steal anymore, he could tie me to the bed. Hell, if he didn't want me around anymore, he could just set me on fire, I could go out like Mom did-  
  
 _No, Sammy, you don't talk about Mom like that. Don't say that shit, don't fucking..._  
  
I sighed, reached over, ran my fingers over his hand. The muscles under his skin twitched, his fingers tightening on the steering wheel, but he didn't move away. In a softer tone, I told him the truth.  
  
 _I know._  
  
He didn't feel the same way.  
  
 _That's not it, Sammy._  
  
May as well be.  
  
He pulled over to a motel a few hours later, and he fucked away the problems. He was always better at that, at actions and fucking and killing and stealing and making all my problems go away.  
  
I made the problems, he solved them.  
  
That's just how it worked, how it'd always worked, even with Dad. Because with Dad, I never did what he said, I provoked him, made him mad. It was my fault, he would always say. I agreed with him, because it was just easier to say I was a fuck up than to say _Dad was wrong_ in front of Dean. But Dean said it wasn't my fault, over and over, every time a nightmare made me cry and scream and thrash in my sleep and he had to curl himself around me and shush me and pet my hair - it wasn't my fault, it wasn't my fault, I was okay. But when I asked him whose fault it was, he just told me to go back to sleep.  
  
Things were better in Miami.  
  
Dean got a job, I went to a nice school. I didn't have any friends, didn't try to make any. When I got back home to our little apartment in the middle of the city, I did my homework and slept for a bit, and Dean would wake me up for dinner that he'd gotten at McDonalds, and then we'd fall into bed together, and I'd wake up before Dean, and every time when he came into the kitchen to see me bent over the newspaper and a cup of coffee he always told me how if I kept getting taller he'd kick my ass.  
  
You could almost call us _domestic_.  
  
 _Cute._  
  
 _Homey._  
  
 _Adorable._  
  
 _Quaint._  
  
I hated it.  
  
When I graduated high school, Dean popped a bottle of champagne and poured it out for me, telling me all about his plans about how we could get to California and I could go to Stanford and we could be happy, and he'd gotten reservations for my favorite restaurant that night so I should go take a shower and get ready to go.  
  
I stood up and I grabbed him, pulling him into a hard kiss. He hummed and kissed me back, but he looked at me like I was crazy when I pulled away.  
  
 _What was that?_  
  
I didn't want to go to college.  
  
 _What? Sammy, you've been planning Stanford since you were twelve!_  
  
I'm not twelve anymore.  
  
 _So. What do you want?_  
  
I looked at my glass of champagne, then threw it against the wall. Dean started yelling, confused and shocked, but I just smiled at him.  
  
C'mon, Dean. Let's go rob some shit.

We don't wear shit to cover our faces from cameras these days.  
  
We don't have any shame, we don't try to act like we feel guilty.  
  
Well. Maybe Dean is a little guilty. But not as much as he used to. He smiles and winks at the camera, and sometimes even kisses me. It's nice.  
  
It's always nice strolling into a bank and no one knowing who we are, too, though, because it means we're getting paid.  
  
I stand in line for a bit, look around, and see that Dean is in his place on the bench, face buried in a newspaper. I get up to the cashier, finally, and I politely ask for a withdrawal, with the cute baby face and everything, but when the nice lady says that my account is empty, I pout and ask her to check again. She shows me the computer screen - sure enough, Sam Wesson, $0.00.  
  
"Do you have anything in the back?" I ask, keeping my eyes wide and innocent.  
  
She smiles, a bit confused. "What?"  
  
"I said," I slipped my gun out of my pocket, holding it up against her head, my smile becoming feral. "Do you have anything in the back?"  
  
There's a scream behind me, "He's got a gun!" and suddenly all eyes are on me. I turn to look at everyone, smile a bit.  
  
"Gosh, guys, calm down, I just want some money," I said. "But, if she isn't going to give me any," I jab the lady at the desk in the forehead with the gun, " _Someone_ here is going to."  
  
Dean fired a single shot into the air, up to the ceiling, and there were more screams. He stood up, taking off his hat - some old fedora we got from a pawn shop - and held it out to the nearest lady. "Down on the ground, hands up. Give us your shit, and you won't get hurt."  
  
Security guards ran in as Dean started walking around, yelling about how we had to leave or they'd call the cops, but we ignored them. One of them raised his gun at Dean, and in a sudden flare of anger, I shot him, then the other one, just to keep drama down to a minimum.  
  
Dean chuckled. "You're getting to be a better shot every day, Sammy."  
  
"I have a good teacher," I said, sidling up to his side. "You know, we should go to Vegas one of these days."  
  
"Ooh, me likey," Dean snickered as an old man put a gold watch in the hat. He curled an arm around me, blowing on my ear. "Where to next, Sammy?"  
  
"Think we could kill the President?"  
  
"Nah, not yet."  
  
I pouted, but pulled away from him. "Hurry up, dude, the police are gonna be here any minute now."  
  
Within minutes, we were out the door, strangers' valuables in tow.  
  
We got back to our motel, and I immediately wrapped myself around him, pressing our lips together.  
  
"I wasn't kidding about Vegas, you know. Or the President," I mumbled between kisses.  
  
"I know, Gigantor, you're not exactly the subtle type," he said, pushing me onto the bed.

We hit Vegas in another year, when we were in the center of the public eye. We had some backup - a friend of Dad's, a new friend who did anything Dean said, some alcoholic hot mess - and it went well.  
  
Casinos have a lot of money.  
  
After a few years of living off that, occasionally robbing small fry stores and banks, we visit Washington DC. Just me and Dean, no backup, and we actually tour around for a bit.  
  
It's kinda pretty.  
  
That plan doesn't go over as well, though, and maybe that's okay. We couldn't live off this kinda shit forever, and it was one hell of a ride.  
  
Dean bleeds out faster than me, but he's able to mumble one last "love you, little brother" to me before he finally kicks it. It pisses me off, watching him die, knowing I'll die next. My fingers close around his gun, still on his hip, and I point it at the cops in front of me.  
  
Five cops die that night.  
  
Five cops, and two criminals.  
  
Those cops are seen as heroes, because they solved the problem I made when Dean couldn't. And once again, I was just the problem child.  
  
My bad.


End file.
